


life full of time

by pixiepuff (colourmecrunchy)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: ANGST fellas, Angst, Intense, M/M, Reincarnation, hopeful ending prospect, rated m for dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourmecrunchy/pseuds/pixiepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reincarnation/waiting for his king to wake up - whichever way you want to take it.</p><p>Merlin's thoughts and perception of the world while withering on on his own, and waiting to be reunited with Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life full of time

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i give colin and bradley a break and go torture merthur.

 

It’s tainted, his mind is.

It’s been centuries.

A long, cold, miserable sequence of years starting to blur together, one more desperate than the other. Solace will be the death of him - if only he _could_ die, that is.

  
It’s a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts and endless possibilities of ending it that he hadn’t acted on because he knew he wouldn’t be able to follow through. It was futile. He tried, once, twice - first after two hundred years when he felt like he cannot endure another summer without  _him_ ; and then again when he’s already lost count of how long he’s been walking this earth alone. He wanted an escape, he wanted oblivion, he wanted to sleep just like _he_  did, unknowing – he wanted this to be over in a heartbeat so he, too, can be waken up with an era-long yearned-for kiss.

He knew why it was him not being put to slumber, and not the other way around. He was stronger. Sturdier. Both in mind, not the body. He was calm to  _his_  storm and foundations to  _his_  kingdom; he could endure for however long he had to, to see  _him_  again. His whole life now was a string of paused events, glimpses of a familiar face in the streets, with walls of his soul crashing down around him as he realized it couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.   
If – no, not  _if_ , because he cannot even try to entertain the idea of spending his eternity without  _him_ by his side –  _when_  he sees him again, it won’t be a coincidence, or a mere passing-by on the pavement. It will be magnificent and terrible, a destructive force of two gods being reunited, and sometimes he tries to feel pity for everyone who will stand in their path. But he can’t feel any because his heart had been asleep for over a millenia and once he finally gets it back, he already knows it won’t matter if they’re the only two people left in the world.  
  
There was no sense of accomplishment, he didn’t have even the vaguest idea of what success tasted like anymore. It must have been sweeter than the everlasting pang of salty peanuts and cigarette smoke, occasionally mixed with a bad decision or two, but he just couldn’t remember it.  
  
There was no sense of belonging, either. A nomad for life, ever moving, never stopping, always on the run, horrified to ever be caught. But how does one outrun oneself without falling into the same temptations over and over again, never learning from mistakes, because mistakes were good, they brought relief, they brought purpose, such as it was, and the hangover the next day never really added to the guilty conscience. He brought himself to the brink of existence over and over again, desperately wanting to be taken to that island, if only in spirit, to gaze upon a beloved face.

Sometimes he was lost enough to dream of him.  
  
He didn’t worry about others. You can’t steal from a man who has nothing at all. No possessions. He is possessed himself, though, taken prisoner of his own thoughts and centuries-long yearnings, his spirit long lost somewhere in the foreign sheets and dark streets which he roams alone. Always alone.

Corners of his mind still remember the man he used to be, and the man he used to  _have_ , body and soul, when the world was a vast playground and the rides were free and gleeful and the drag of cold, winter air into his lungs didn’t feel like he was letting in something fowl, sinister, and yet so welcome.  
  
The parasitic growth of his own thoughts gone wrong inside his head made his loneliness strangely crowded, mental images shrieking and screeching at him, twisting his mind, making him do things he never contemplated doing. Crimes against humanity are nothing in comparison to a crime against yourself.

  
Sometimes he misses the silence.

 

He needs him  _back_.


End file.
